


A Fortuitous Encounter

by purpleshirtobsession



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleshirtobsession/pseuds/purpleshirtobsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick character study written in response to the prompt, "Write about a time when two people depended on each other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fortuitous Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. Apologies in advance.

They are conjugated from the beginning, from the moment John limps into Bart’s.

Sherlock recognizes immediately that this man is unique. Posture, haircut, suntan – all point to the military. The limp is psychosomatic, hardly a result of the bullet wound on his right shoulder. His countenance is blank, a carefully schooled mask devoid of emotion. Yet underneath, Sherlock can see the ennui, the need for excitement. In that instant, he makes his decision, and within a day, they are settling into their new life as flatmates.

The events of the next week only serve to confirm Sherlock’s earlier deductions. John responds to his logic with “That was amazing!” or “Brilliant!” rather than the typical “Piss off!” He flat out refuses when Sherlock’s “arch-enemy” and elder brother Mycroft abducts him and tries to convince him to spy on Sherlock for money. And finally, he barely bats an eyelash when he fires a bullet into the cabbie’s chest, just as Sherlock is about to take the pill. This, Sherlock realizes, is significant. This is the beginning of something new and wonderful.

  
Of course, like any other couple, they have their rough patches. They have domestics about petty things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. They argue about the importance of knowing that the earth revolves around the sun. And John does, on occasion, become so utterly exasperated by Sherlock’s puerile attitude that he leaves and doesn’t come back for hours – sometimes days – on end. But Sherlock knows that he will always return. No reason to worry.

  
But this time, it is different. He senses it the moment John leaves for Sarah’s, but accredits it to the sense of peril that comes with the game. Everything will be fine. John will be back.

  
But when Sherlock steps into the room, memory stick in hand, the niggling feeling becomes overpowering. Before he has time to push it down, John steps out from the shadows.

  
All of a sudden, he can’t breathe. His throat closes up, chest tightens, and the only thought running through his mind is _not John, not John, please god, not John…_

  
But then Sherlock sees the Semtex, and he’s able to breathe again. The relief is overwhelming. John is not Moriarty.

  
At that moment, the real Moriarty decides to come out, promising to burn the heart out of him. The snipers are poised, ready for action. The lasers are all over Sherlock’s body, swarming like a hive of angry red bees. _How ironic_ , Sherlock thinks. John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at John. Their eyes meet, and Sherlock knows what he must do.

  
When the team from Scotland Yard shows up exactly twenty-three minutes later, they find among the rubble a memory stick, the remains of what used to be a Semtex jacket, and the body of James Moriarty. The game is over. Sherlock has won.

  
On the way back to the flat, each man reflects on the other. John knows he helps Sherlock because he loves the adrenaline that comes with it – he lives for the excitement, the promise of danger that is always imminent. But there is something else.

  
Sherlock also recognizes that the reason he helps John is because John is useful. John is capable. John is… John. But there is something else.

  
This something is the reason that John puts up with Sherlock’s childish tantrums, the violin concertos at unearthly hours of the night, the human entrails so often found innocently placed next to the already-soured milk. This something is the reason that he lives with this high-functioning sociopath and his seemingly-psychopathic tendencies.

  
They both know what it is. Neither voices it. But it keeps them alive in the cozy domesticity of 221B Baker Street. It gives them the strength to carry on, to keep solving cases together. And when they return, adrenaline wearing off after the chase and the case, it’s waiting for them in the form of takeaway and crap telly and _home _.__

__  
__ And for now, it is enough.


End file.
